


(I Wish You Were) By My Side

by hearthope



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Other, Slow Burn, long distance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 02:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17779220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthope/pseuds/hearthope
Summary: It's the middle of winter.Keiji misses Bokuto.Over 6,700 miles and two weeks' time, Akaashi comes to realize some feelings.





	(I Wish You Were) By My Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [painpackerrisingsun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/painpackerrisingsun/gifts).



> for ginny, because My One True Love, and also bc name a bkak that she doesn't [inspire](https://twitter.com/painpackerrs/status/1043992730467270657)
> 
>  
> 
> [what do i do? without you,  
>  my heart has no home](https://youtu.be/R9VDPMk5ls0)

It’s the middle of winter.

  


In Tokyo, it’s raining, the temperature just on the wrong side of chilly. The perfect weather for staying inside, curled up in a blanket with a cup of tea, maybe a book or a video game, but it’s not unreasonable to go out to a café, and not insufferable to have to go to work.

  


In DC, there’s a heavy cold front sweeping in, accompanied by a winter storm, predicted to bring at least eight inches of snow and sub-zero temperatures in the days following. Terrible weather for anything. Terrible for commuting, terrible for running out for groceries, terrible for walking dogs. Inside is okay, mostly, if there’s a space heater involved and a great distance away from any windows, where the chill always seeps in through invisible cracks.

  


Keiji hasn’t left their apartment since they got off work two days ago. They don’t really plan to, either, until their meeting on Wednesday, so long as that doesn’t get called off.

  


They’ve come up with plenty of excuses for it. They don’t have work, _can’t_ do work anyway, with the weather like this; they’re stocked up on enough food that they’ll survive the rest of the week, even if it means rationing the little coffee remaining; they need the rest anyway, having had a whole week of near sleepless nights, and a full memory card of photos to sort through and edit on top of it all. But they’re all just excuses, and they’re all flimsy. They know there’s a root to the issue, and they know what the root is, and they know that in any other circumstance, they’d be taking full advantage of the time off to explore the city and enjoy the snow, gather new inspiration.

  


The root of the matter is this:

  


Keiji misses Bokuto.

  


That’s not the whole and sum of it, but it’s the baseline, the shorthand, the quick synopsis right on the inside cover to give the quickest and clearest explanation. Keiji misses Bokuto, and they’re moping.

  


It’s probably a little pathetic. Definitely. Kuroo would absolutely call them out on it if he knew. The thing is, they’ve been away before. Keiji’s been taking trips for work since the dawn of their career. Weekends in Sapporo, a week in Shenzhen, scattered days in Osaka, another week in Munich. But this is the furthest they’ve gone, the longest their trip has been scheduled for, and the worst the jet lag has been. They’re alone in this apartment, and it’s too quiet, and exploring the city is much less fun when they have no one to share it with.

  


They curl their blanket tighter around their shoulders and take their phone from the couch’s armrest. No new notifications. Fair, considering Bokuto’s still at work for a little while longer, but Keiji would be lying if they said they weren’t anticipating his call. He always texts them first thing when he wakes up in the morning, and calls first thing when he gets off work, even if it’s the middle of the night in DC. It’s not like Keiji’s sleeping anyway. No actual work schedule means no actual sleep schedule, and they’ve got insomnia anyway, so Bokuto doesn’t feel guilty about it, and Keiji doesn’t let him.

  


Their phone pings and they move to check it embarrassingly fast. It’s just Sarukui, though. An update on his endeavor to find the best dorayaki in Tokyo. The shop around the corner from Keiji’s favorite book store lands itself at a solid sixth on his list. Higher than they expected, if they’re being honest.

  


Just as they’ve put their phone back down, resigning themself to going to make some tea just to occupy some more time, it rings again, and Bokuto’s contact photo flashes on the screen. Keiji doesn’t wait an extra few seconds before picking it up, doesn’t try to mask the fact that they’ve been waiting. They’re well beyond that at this point.

  


Their voice feels too quiet when they answer, “Hi, Bokuto-san.” They tuck their feet under themself, settling in, and pull their blanket up to their chin. “How did practice go today?”

  


Bokuto hums, the sound low and warm and familiar. It eases something in Keiji to hear it. Something they know, something comforting, in the midst of unfamiliar territory and a too-empty, too-quiet apartment.

  


“You’re gonna love to see the games when you’re back,” Bokuto says, and Keiji can perfectly picture him preening. “Ikue’s jump float has gotten so good, Naito can hardly even pick it up. We’ve got a practice match this weekend, I’ll let you know how it goes. I think they’ve got a real chance at getting to Nationals this year.”

  


A smile pulls at Keiji’s lips. “I’ll look forward to seeing it. Classes?”

  


Bokuto huffs, the sound crackling in the phone speaker. The diffusion serves to do nothing more than remind Keiji of the distance between them. “I think the students are smarter than me. Kuno called me out on a mistake I made on a problem in the notes. This is _so_ your fault, you know!”

  


Keiji laughs, stretches their legs out in front of them. “My fault? I’d love to know how.”

  


“You weren’t here to check my work,” Bokuto shoots back. “And Kuroo never takes it seriously.”

  


“You have a degree. You went to university and got an entire math degree, I should hope you would be able to catch your own mistakes.” Maybe they should make some tea, after all. It’s not like they’ll be going to bed any time soon anyway — Bokuto will keep them on the phone for a couple hours at least. Which, of course, they don’t mind. He wouldn’t do it if they didn’t want it.

  


“What happened to the nice, supportive, jet-lagged Akaashi? I liked them better, they were too tired to be snarky.” Keiji’s smile lifts further. “I can’t wait for you to get home and be all ruined and soft again.”

  


“Then maybe I’ll have to prolong my trip.” Even the thought of it hurts. There’s no way they’d be able to be away for longer than they’ve already planned. DC is a far shot from Tokyo in every last aspect. They want their bed back. Weather that isn’t so cold it frosts their lungs over. They want a couch that’s much older, much rattier than the one they’re currently sprawled across with Bokuto at the other end of it, texting on his phone while they both pretend they’re actually interested in whatever movie they’ve put on. It hasn’t been a whole week yet, but they’re already longing for familiar surroundings.

  


Bokuto squawks, offended at the idea of Keiji staying away just out of spite. “You would never! How do you know I haven’t already made plans for when you get back? What if I’ve got a—a reservation somewhere and have to cancel just because _you_ wanted to be petty?”

  


“Oh? A reservation? Are you treating me somewhere nice? What a change of pace, I’d love to know what it’s like to go to dinner with you and not be the one paying.”

  


There’s another frustrated noise that Keiji can’t hold in a laugh at. They don’t mean any of it, and they know Bokuto knows that, but it’s fun to tease. Riling him up — knowing without even having to see that he’s smiling, too — softens the edges of the night.

  


“Maybe you should stay in DC after all,” Bokuto says. “I’ll take over your apartment, it’s way nicer than mine anyway.”

  


Keiji snorts. “You already have. Kenma keeps asking if you’ve moved in from how much you’re there.”

  


This, more than anything else, is the opposite of a problem for them. There are traces of Bokuto all over their home — the terrible dish he made in a pottery class they took together houses their keys by the front door, all his favorite snacks are always stowed away in the backs of cabinets, he has at least three sweatshirts lying around the place at any given moment. Fair, considering he’s always there. Keiji comes home to find him sprawled across their couch, helping himself to their cup ramen. He’ll walk in unannounced and make himself at home, all hours of the day and night. Keiji’s never minded. There’s something comforting about the feeling that they don’t really live _alone_ — after growing up in a full house, living alone felt too empty. DC feels too empty. There’s a stark absence here.

  


Bokuto made a place for himself at Keiji’s, and Keiji made no sort of protest against it. He’d already fit himself into the rest of Keiji’s life, slipping comfortably into their family and their circle of friends. It made no difference if he was a permanent fixture in their home as well. If anything, it only felt natural.

  


Everything has a tendency to be like that, with him.

  


“Keep at this and maybe I will move in,” Bokuto says. “You’ve got the space for it.”

  


“I don’t, really, you just have a habit of making one for yourself anyway.”

  


“Whatever!” There’s a lilt in his voice. A smile they can’t see. “Are you staying warm? Every time I check the weather, it’s colder there. I know you’re a baby in the cold.”

  


“I am _not—“_ Keiji tries to argue, but they know it’s useless. Bokuto’s already plowing on with an argument.

  


“You are so! Every time there’s a _breeze_ you get way in my space trying to get warm. You stole my favorite jacket!”

  


“You gave me that jacket,” Keiji fires back, eyes narrowed. “Don’t try to act like this is some villainous scheme. I wouldn’t take what you don’t offer. And I am, keeping warm, by the way, thank you. I’ve been prepared for it.” They don’t say that it’s harder, that it’s always a little colder regardless. The cold bites harder through their skin here, more vicious than anything in Tokyo. Blankets aren’t the same as Bokuto curled around them in bed, or his hat tucked as far over their ears as it’ll go. “I’m surprised you’re checking the weather here.”

  


“Of course I am!” He sounds almost offended, like _of course_ he’s going to, _of course_ he goes out of his way to see what’s going on in Keiji’s life. This is an ages old argument. Keiji’s well familiar with this tangent by now. “You still check the Tokyo weather.”

  


“Because if I don’t remind you to take your umbrella in the mornings, you’ll show up to school drenched.” And because of course they’re going to, of course they go out of their way to see what’s going on in Bokuto’s life. This is an ages old routine. Bokuto should know this by now.

  


“Jokes on you, you reminded me yesterday and I still forgot it.”

  


“I think you’re still at the butt of that one, Bokuto-san.”

  


“Whatever!”

  


Outside, the temperature is dipping lower, nearing zero. Ice is coating the pavement, threatening to fall off the roof of the rented apartment, making the stairway railing slick. The cold that pierces through straight to the heart. But Keiji feels a melting in their chest, warmth spreading all the way through to the tips of their fingers.

  


This is what has had Keiji moping. They miss _this._

  


They talk a while longer. All the way through Bokuto getting home and making dinner. The conversation dwindles while he eats, but the line stays active. Keiji makes tea and takes it to their bed, and Bokuto puts them on speaker while he starts his laundry, and everything is almost right.

  


Bokuto promises to call tomorrow, and even if Keiji already knew he would, hearing it is comforting.

  


“Send pictures of the snow, okay? I wanna see it!” Bokuto says. Something soft sounds in the background, like he’s finally sitting down on his own bed. “And make sure you’re staying warm there!”

  


“I promise,” Keiji says. “Don’t stay up too late. Email your lecture slides if you’d still like me to check them.”

  


The call ends before Keiji can bring themself to tell him, _I miss you._

  


They have a hard time falling asleep, still disquieted by the emptiness of the apartment. This apartment doesn’t smell like Bokuto, and he’s not there to melt the lingering cold out of their bones, and this isn’t home.

  


This is the whole and sum of the matter:

  


They’re homesick.

  


* * *

  


They met Bokuto through pure chance and luck.

  


Keiji had never particularly been one for sports. Mostly, they just didn’t get what was going on half the time. Too many specific rules they couldn’t keep track of, and every time they thought they understood how something worked, there’d be some technicality, some _yes, but—_ and they’d be right back to lost again.

  


So they avoided covering them at all costs. They were more interested in nature and city life than anything else anyway, and that’s what they were always generally assigned to shoot. But Yachi had needed someone to accompany her to the national volleyball team’s semifinal match, and Kaori had been out sick, so Keiji had volunteered to go with. They never minded sports if Yachi was around — she always did a good job of explaining anything that confused them — so they were expecting it to at the very least be _not terrible._

  


They got far more than that.

  


It took half the first set to settle in and familiarize themself with what was going on, and with the players of the team. The rest of the match was spent more or less watching the team’s ace.

  


It was hard not to. There was something electric about his presence, magnetic, and they felt sure the whole crowd in attendance was watching his every move just as intently. Keiji didn’t have to know volleyball to know he was a star player. It wasn’t just his skill, or that every spike he hit was a solid kill. But it was clear to see how the rest of the team around him sparked up with his energy. He was captivating, and Keiji was caught full in his orbit.

  


The team introduced themselves after the match, and Keiji found themself standing right in front of him, the team’s vice captain accompanied by the captain, grinning and exhausted and more radiant than anyone Keiji had ever met before. They hadn’t caught a word from Oikawa through the whole conversation between them and Yachi, and when the story was published, it was Bokuto calling the office with his thanks and compliments. He invited them and Yachi to dinner, to properly meet everyone, and then just Keiji and himself the next week to lunch, and at some point, Bokuto became a fixed point in their life, comfortable and familiar, a solid presence to lean against.

  


There was and always has been something bright about him. The sun, the moon, the stars— whatever, enrapturing, warm. A gravitational pull strong enough that Keiji still can’t pinpoint exactly when or how they went from separate entities to _KeijiandBokuto,_ when or how it ended up that their mother calls every few weeks to ask when they’re coming around for dinner again and whether they’re bringing him with, when or how the answer became constantly _of course, what kind of question is that?_

  


So being so far has them thrown haywire.

  


Or, possibly, it’s just that they’re going a little stir crazy, stuck in their apartment, running low on tea and sour candy. It’s more difficult being so far from home, where everyone they know is sound asleep while their day is at its peak. They’ve dealt with plenty of time differences before, but never from half a world away. There’s always been some sort of overlap. Something to keep Keiji from feeling alone.

  


Things would have been going fine, if it weren’t for the cold front hitting. Keiji feels trapped, running low on things to do. They send Bokuto a picture of the snow outside their bedroom window. They try to make a cake using a store-bought mix, and it turns out alright. They send Bokuto a picture of that, too. He’ll get a kick out of it, they know. He always thinks it’s funny when Keiji attempts anything in the kitchen.

  


“You’re so _bad_ at this,” he always says, whenever they try anything more complex than cup noodles. “Is it really that hard to follow a recipe?”

  


Backwards from the typical: _is it that hard to plug numbers into an equation?_ when he’s stuck on a math problem.

  


Always teasing, though. Always lighthearted. They both know, their strengths lie in different areas. This, Keiji sometimes thinks, may be what makes them fit. The differences between them create a perfect balance.

  


Keiji misses him. They _miss_ him.

  


Three in the afternoon hits, and they give in. They can only handle being in an empty apartment for so long before the solitude gets to them. They throw on two sweatshirts, their warmest coat, their thickest scarf, a hat and gloves, and keep their hands tucked in their pockets as they make their way to the nearest subway station.

  


“What happened to _I’d rather die than step foot out there?”_ Kenma asks. His face is pixelated on Keiji’s phone screen from the terrible reception inside the botanical gardens, and dark. He can’t even be bothered to turn on a light.

  


“Being miserable around other people is decidedly better than being miserable alone,” they say. “I can take twenty minutes of cold if it means not having to sit at that apartment all day with no one to talk to.”

  


“You’re talking to me right now,” Kenma says flatly.

  


“I didn’t know you were awake when I left,” Keiji replies, eyes narrowed. “If you’d texted me ten minutes earlier, I wouldn’t have had to leave at all.”

  


“What a shame. Flip the camera, I wanna see the flowers.”

  


Keiji rolls their eyes but flips the camera so Kenma can see what they’re seeing as they wander around. It’s nearly empty, with everyone else having stayed home where they could to avoid having to face the temperature. If they’re grateful for anything, it’s that the gardens are warm. They’ve shed all their layers down to their t-shirt, everything shoved haphazardly into their backpack.

  


“Where’s Kuroo-san?” Keiji asks as they walk up a set of stairs. Flowers are growing up the wall, fresh and alive and more colorful than anything Keiji’s seen since their flight touched down. “You’re not waking him up?”

  


Kenma shakes his head. “He crashed at Bokuto’s, or something. I thought you would’ve known, don’t you tell each other everything?”

  


“It’s not—“ Keiji heaves a sigh, glad Kenma can’t see their face. “I knew they were going out for the night. I just didn’t realize he would be staying with Bokuto.”

  


“I don’t think he was planning on it, but they were out late, so. You know. What’s that on the left, it looks cool. Where’s it from? You’re a terrible tour guide.”

  


“I wasn’t planning on _being_ a tour guide,” Keiji mutters. “You’re the one who FaceTimed me, demanding I show you around. You’re just ungrateful.”

  


“Is this how you talk to Bokuto when he calls? Or are you actually nice to him? Nevermind, I know you are, you wouldn’t know how to be mean to him if your life were on the line. You’re in so deep it’s disgusting.”

  


There’s a knotting in Keiji’s stomach. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  


“It means I’m surprised you’re not FaceTiming _him_ for virtual dates while you go around the city, the way you always do when you’re away,” Kenma says, like it’s the most obvious, plain-as-day thing in the world. “Real backwards that you’re calling me.”

  


“You called me,” Keiji says weakly. “And he’s asleep. He has work tomorrow.”

  


“Doesn’t stop him from calling you at all hours of the night. Are you going to keep moving or are we going to stare at the same orchids for the next hour? I want to see a cactus.”

  


Keiji tries to process as they circle around to another set of stairs, and wander through the sections of the gardens, stopping here and there to show things to Kenma. They’re barely taking any of it in. They’ll have to come back again, when they’re not preoccupied and distracted by bold claims and accusations.

  


“How do you even know?” they ask, entering Hawaii.

  


“Know what?”

  


“That he calls.”

  


Kenma scoffs, and Keiji can see him roll his eyes even in the dim light of his own phone screen. “Don’t act stupid. I know everything. Plus he talks about it, like, all the time. Doesn’t have time for dinner ever anymore because he hasn’t called you yet and doesn’t want to miss you. As if you’re ever asleep. As if you don’t sleep with your phone on full volume in case he calls, because we all know you’d do anything not to miss his call. You’re not subtle, Keiji.”

  


They consider ending the call, but don’t. Just ignore his statements instead, ignore any implications. So what if they do? They miss home, and Bokuto is always there to remind them of it. To make them feel a little more secure when they’re all alone, half a world away. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

  


“If you called just to bully me, you can go ahead and hang up,” they say. “I’ll enjoy the gardens by myself.”

  


Kenma frowns. “No, shut up. I wanna see. I can’t sleep, I wanna see flowers. Show me that freaky tree back there.”

  


He falls asleep by the time Keiji’s rounded the entire building twice, and they go around a third time before leaving, snapping pictures of everything they find interesting, or that Bokuto or Yachi might like. They’re not good quality, just shot with their phone, but they’ll be appreciated nonetheless. They’ll come back with their camera another time to take better photos.

  


They wander museums until they close, before braving the cold again to get back to the apartment. They spend an hour warming up again, make tea, and try to stay awake long enough for Bokuto’s call.

  


It doesn’t last long this time, on Keiji’s end. They’re asleep by the time Bokuto’s made it to his front door, barely making it through the relaying of events from his night with Kuroo. Something about karaoke and a broken window they’ll have to ask about later. When they pick their phone off the floor beside their bed in the morning, there’s a collection of texts wishing them a good night’s sleep and a good morning ahead, and _please send the flower pictures i wanna see!!_

  


They go back that afternoon for better photos, tracking down everything they think he’ll really _really_ like, and some for Yachi and Shimizu. It’s worth it, when Bokuto replies to the email, thrilled.

  


* * *

  


Keiji’s curled up in bed, halfway through a decently good book when Bokuto calls. It’s unexpected, coming this early in the evening. It’s maybe nine in the morning in Tokyo, but it’s also Saturday, so he doesn’t have work. Practice, maybe, unless it’s one of their days off.

  


They answer.

  


“You’re up early for a weekend,” they comment.

  


Bokuto hums. “I’m going out with Kenma and Oikawa,” he says. “Not for a few hours, but I wanted to talk to you now, in case I don’t get a chance later.” His voice is still rough with the last dregs of sleep, heavy breaths hitting the phone speaker and sending static through to Keiji’s end. “What did you get up to today?”

  


“Mm. Went around a different part of the city, did some shopping,” they say. They hear the rustling of sheets, Bokuto perking up. They smile to themself. “Before you ask, yes, I got you something, and no, I’m not going to tell you what it is. You’ll have to wait for me to get back.”

  


Bokuto pouts. “That’s so far away. I have to go weeks without seeing you, and you’re going to withhold _this_ from me, too. I don’t even get a hint?”

  


“No hint.” They set their book on the bedside table and curl further into the covers, pulling them to their chin. “It’s not even that long. Barely more than a week left. You’ll live.”

  


“That’s what _you_ think. I’m decaying as we speak. There’s not going to be anyone to get you from the airport, I’ll be dust by then. In the ground with the dirt. You’re gonna miss me. You know it, right? You’ll miss me.”

  


Silence rings through the apartment, accompanied by the cold that settles even over the sheets. Keiji’s voice, soft: “I already miss you, Bokuto-san.”

  


There’s more rustling as Bokuto shifts. It’s a change of mood, they know, and he’s processing. If they were to close their eyes, and if their mind were a little more clear, they imagine it wouldn’t be hard to picture him sprawled right beside them in bed. They’ve spent enough lazy afternoons and late evenings in the same way. Even with the distance between them, all the miles and hours, when it’s like this — quiet and clear and familiar — they feel like they could be so close.

  


“Just another week,” Bokuto murmurs. “And then you’ll be back. I’ll cook you dinner and everything. You’ll be right in time for the start of the tournament, too, you have to promise to come to some games.”

  


“Of course I’ll come,” Keiji says. “I always come.”

  


Anything and everything, always, for Bokuto. He’s asked time and time again, and so now Keiji will go before the words even have to leave his mouth.

  


“Okay.” Bokuto’s voice comes quietly, careful not to break the moment. “I miss you, too, you know. It’s weird being at your apartment to water the plants. It’s so empty, it’s creepy.”

  


“You’re overdramatic,” they say, even though the sentiment carries over. This is how DC feels without Bokuto: empty, creepy. Wrong. It’s not home.

  


“Don’t be mean,” Bokuto huffs. “Are you seeing other people there? Making friends? There’s gotta be loads of other photographers, it’s an artsy city, right? Your type of place. Do you like it, Akaash’? Next time you go, I want to come with.”

  


Keiji softens, settling into their pillows. If they could’ve invited him along this time, they would have in a heartbeat. But it was borderline impulsive, spur of the moment, desperate. They needed a change of pace before the weight of stagnation crushed them. Bokuto had obligations, a job he couldn’t just take a break from on a whim. So they came alone.

  


“I’d like that, Bokuto-san. It’s much less exciting without you here, you know.”

  


There’s silence, and even without seeing him, Keiji knows he’s calculating, picking up on the underlying words. “Is that a dig? Is that supposed to be a dig, Akaashi?” Keiji’s laugh, subdued with the late hour, is enough of an answer. “Exciting is good, you know! Things happening is good. You’d be a lot more bored without me, I know it.”

  


Instead of conceding and agreeing, admitting he’s right, Keiji replies, “Exciting got my arm broken when you dragged me into breaking into Kuroo-san’s apartment through the window for a prank you didn’t even pull off.”

  


Bokuto squawks in protest, and Keiji smiles into their pillow.

  


“The fire escape should’ve been stable!” he cries. “It’s a fire escape! People are meant to be able to use it!”

  


“And look what happened.”

  


Bokuto sputters, trying to find something to fire back with, and Keiji curls further into themself. This is what they’re missing so far away — this comfort. It’s not the same as having Bokuto lying right beside them, the only person they ever let into their space like that, tired murmuring lulling them to sleep, or joking prods at their shoulder achieving the opposite, but it’s something. It’s still Bokuto’s voice in their ear, warming something inside them, and that has to be enough.

  


“You’re mean when you’re tired, Akaashi,” Bokuto finally puffs. “I call first thing in the morning just to hear your voice, _just_ to talk to you, and this is what I get for it? Maybe I’ll just text next time.”

  


“You won’t.” Keiji knows this much. Bokuto knows Keiji hates texting. They can never make sense of the tone, and have a far more difficult time trying to comprehend the finer nuances of everything. They prefer phone calls, where they can hear all the inflection, go through all the pauses and words that are more exact to the intended meaning despite not being able to think over them first — maybe _because_ there isn’t the same room for that kind of thought. So Bokuto always calls. Keiji is more comfortable with this, and Bokuto knows it, so he calls.

  


(A late conversation with Kenma comes to mind. Keiji had asked, mostly joking, what he actually saw in Kuroo. It had somehow turned from laughter and petty remarks to Kenma telling them, in all seriousness, that it was the comfort. That Kuroo made it a point to know all his boundaries and preferences, and to respect them, no questions asked.)

  


“Whatever!” Bokuto says. “But know that I’ll be calling for _me,_ so I can hear your voice, not because I’m being nice. It’s totally selfish.”

  


“Liar. You don’t have a selfish bone in your body.”

  


“That’s what you think! You’re going to hate when I prove you wrong later. When I get back and call you, I’m going to _only_ be thinking about myself, and you better remember that.”

  


“Sure, sure. Where are you going out to?”

  


Bokuto lays out all his plans for them. It’s meticulously detailed, which shouldn’t come as any surprise, considering it’s both Oikawa _and_ Kenma involved. He sounds excited about it, and Keiji’s happy to hear it.

  


He asks more about their day, what kinds of sights they saw, the shops they visited. Some of it is fully unsubtle questions trying to dig into what Keiji bought him, but they think it’s intentional. Something to make them laugh, because he’s good at that. In their head, they’re mapping out a trip with Bokuto, where they’d take him, what they’d do. The gardens for sure. The museums and monuments, too, because he loves learning about all of that. But the restaurants, most importantly. Almost all food Keiji hates, but knows he loves, and they’d sit through a full meal of it perfectly content knowing he’s enjoying himself.

  


They grip the edge of their blankets tighter in their free hand. There’s a branching path down this train of thought.

  


They stay standing still, not choosing to go down either.

  


“You’ve gotta go back and take tons of pictures of the houses,” Bokuto insists. “They sound pretty and I wanna see. _Pink!_ Wait, wait, FaceTime me. Will you do that? I don’t even care when, I’ll pick up. Even if it’s three in the morning here, I wanna see.”

  


Keiji laughs, light and easy. “Okay. I will. I’ll do both. I’ll show you all of Georgetown, if you want. I found some good rolled ice cream there, actually.”

  


“I want some,” Bokuto groans. “Ugh. I’m gonna text Oikawa. We’ve gotta make a pitstop later. You have to stop talking about restaurants and food over there, I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  


“You should,” Keiji tells him. “Most important meal of the day.”

  


“Isn’t that a myth?”

  


“Hm. Maybe it is. You should still eat, though.” Will he really pick up if they call? Last they checked, he sleeps with his phone set on silent. But maybe he’ll make an exception if he knows they’re going to call.

  


“I’ll eat,” Bokuto promises. “Is it late there? Are you going to bed soon?”

  


“Soon,” Keiji says, even if they’re not sure they mean it. Sleep has never come easy. Less so when they’re away.

  


“Okay. Okay. I’m going to go make breakfast and get ready to go. I’ll call when I get back, if you’re awake.”

  


“I will be.”

  


“Okay. Good night, Akaashi.”

  


“Good morning, Bokuto-san.”

  


* * *

  


Summer brought Keiji to Shenzhen. Just for a week, for an actual assignment and not an escape. They’d been with Shimizu, who was much more well versed with the city, and showed Keiji everything it had to offer. As soon as they were off for the day, they’d circle back around, doing their best not to get lost, and revisit everything with Bokuto on video call.

  


“I can’t believe you’re in different countries and still going on lunch dates,” Kuroo had joked.

  


But Keiji hadn’t really seen it that way. It was simply that they knew Bokuto would want to see it all, but couldn’t, so they had a job to show him. That was what friends did. He’d do the same for Kenma, surely.

  


“You miss the part where Kenma and I are literally in a relationship,” Kuroo said.

  


“That doesn’t mean you can’t be friends, too.”

  


Something about it had still tugged at Keiji. They’re still picking it apart as they step off the bus in Georgetown and wait for Bokuto to answer their call. It takes a few rings, but his face comes onto the screen, barely lit, and clearly tired. They definitely woke him up.

  


“Hey hey, Akaash’, what’s—oh! You’re not in your apartment.” He rubs at his eyes and sits up, squinting at the screen. His hair is all disheveled, sticking up in every possible direction. Keiji longs to run their fingers through it, fixing it so it lays straight. “Is this—what is it. You told me the name, I know it—“

  


“Georgetown,” Keiji answers. Their breath puffs up in little white clouds in front of them, obscuring their face in the small window on their phone screen. The temperature has climbed back up to above zero — to _bearable_ — but they’re still not a very big fan of it. It’d be a waste, though, to spend the trip holed up in their apartment. They knew what they were getting into when they booked the trip, and now they have to suffer the consequences of not choosing somewhere closer to the equator. “You wanted to see the houses and shops. Are you sure you don’t want to sleep?”

  


Bokuto shakes his head rapidly. It looks like it’s as much to say no as it is to wake himself up. “I said you should call anytime, and I meant it! I wanna see, and you went all the way there for me, so. You have to show me. I’m awake.”

  


Keiji nods and stops at a crosswalk. “Then I’ll show you.” The cord to their headphones keeps knocking against their scarf, their coat, and creating muffled static in their ears. “You’d like walking around here, you know. Tons of hills. I end up out of breath before I’ve walked three blocks.”

  


He laughs, which was mostly the goal. Keiji smiles. “That’s because you keep turning down my offers to join me at the gym! I told you I’d take it easy on you—“

  


“That’s what you told Konoha-san, and he couldn’t walk for two days after.”

  


“Konoha’s pathetic, though, you at least have _some_ stamina.”

  


“What part of breathless by three blocks did you miss?”

  


This earns another laugh, and another round of encouragement, Bokuto’s endless insistence that he knows they’re exaggerating, and that they’d _like_ working out with him, they know it, come on, just _once._ Keiji doesn’t know how to tell him that the idea of seeing him at the gym in one of his sleeveless shirts, all sweaty and pumped up and probably touching them, trying to help, would be absolutely devastating. Keiji’s not sure how to make sense of those thoughts _themself,_ so there’s no way they’re about to share them with Bokuto.

  


They take their time going down each street. Some are more crowded than others, but considering it’s the middle of winter and a weekday, there’s not as many people out and about as there would be at another time of year. The residential streets are totally dead, and Keiji takes their time showing the candy colored houses, letting Bokuto comment on all the interesting architectural bits. He has more insight on these things than Keiji could ever hope to. They could listen to him talk for hours about it, even if they don’t fully understand what he means, if for nothing more than the fact that he looks thrilled to say his piece.

  


They stop in a few stores, pick up a few sweets and a keychain for Bokuto, at his request, and his promise to act surprised when they give it to him.

  


“We should come in the summer,” Bokuto says as Keiji shows him the endless street of stores. “I bet things are way brighter. Probably busier, but that’s not a bad thing, right? I bet it’s really cool. We could go for runs in the morning, around all the monuments, right? Like in _Captain America.”_

  


Keiji snorts. _“You_ could go for morning _Captain America_ runs and tell me how they go. I’d much rather sleep.”

  


“No, you’ve gotta come with! It’s part of the experience,” Bokuto says. “Plus, I want you to. So you’ve gotta. No take backs.”

  


“I can’t take back something I never offered in the first place—“

  


“No take backs!”

  


“Okay. Alright. No take backs. I’ll go running with you.”

  


Bokuto grins. He looks so satisfied with himself. Like he’s won some sort of battle, even if there never was one to begin with. He had it right when he said Keiji would go just because he wants them to. That’s all the push they need.

  


“Are you taking more pictures? You haven’t sent any since the flowers,” he says. “You should be taking pictures! You could make a really neat spread with everything. You always make really neat spreads.”

  


“I’ve been taking pictures,” Keiji tells him honestly. “I’ll show you every last one when I’m back. You can help with the spread, if you want.” Truth be told, they’re not sure anything is worthy of making anything with. They haven’t looked through all the photos yet, but they’re still missing inspiration. They still don’t know what story they want to tell. They’ve got nothing. It’s a terrible thought, that they’ve come all this way, taken this whole trip, just to return at the same place they started from.

  


“You’d really let me?” There’s a light glinting in Bokuto’s eyes. “I’m gonna help you make the most kickass spread, Akaashi, just you wait. It’s gonna be so good. The best you’ve ever put out.”

  


“You’re certainly confident with yourself,” they comment.

  


“Because I’m right! You know I am. Tell me I’m right, ‘Kaashi, admit it. I know you know it.”

  


“Sure, Bokuto-san. You’re right. It’ll be the best spread ever.”

  


Bokuto straightens up, beaming. He totally preens, like Keiji’s compliments — even pulled out like this — mean that much to him.

  


“I’m excited now. I mean, I was excited before, ‘cause I’m always excited to see your stuff, but now I’m extra _extra_ excited. This is already my favorite thing you’re bringing back.”

  


“Even better than the keychain?”

  


“Even better than the keychain. Definitely.”

  


“That says a lot. It’s a pretty cool keychain.”

  


“They’re really cool photos.”

  


Keiji snorts. They look away from their phone, unable to look at the earnestness on his face. He’s always so honest, open about every last feeling in his chest, and they don’t always know what to do with that. It’s too much, sometimes, to think that they’re at the root of those feelings.

  


“You haven’t even seen them yet,” they say.

  


“But you took ‘em,” Bokuto replies, “so I know they are.”

  


Keiji bites their lip, tries to find anything at all to distract, to turn the conversation towards. There’s just the bus stop, and a specialty pet boutique. They look back at the screen, back at Bokuto, still staring, expression soft.

  


“You’re really something.”

  


“Something _great,_ I know, thank you.”

  


“Don’t let that get to your head,” Keiji says. “It’s big enough as it is. You don’t even know that I meant it as a good thing.”

  


“But I’m taking it as one.” Bokuto just looks smug, now, which is better. Better for Keiji’s thoughts.

  


Keiji rolls their eyes and pretends to be in any way annoyed and not enamored. They’re not positive they pull it off, but Bokuto doesn’t say anything, so neither do they.

  


They take a series of side streets, exploring new areas they didn’t see yesterday, and Bokuto asks them to stop to let him look at certain things here and there. They snap photos at all of it. Somewhere, there’ll be something salvageable. That’s what they’re banking on, at least.

  


It’s properly morning for Bokuto and slipping into early evening for Keiji by the time they find a bus stop to go back to the apartment. Their fingers are cold and their toes frozen, and it’ll take ages to warm up, but it’s worth it. Bokuto looks perfectly, completely happy, so it’s worth it.

  


“Try to rest sometime today,” Keiji tells him. “Don’t skip meals. I’ll talk to you later.”

  


“I promise,” Bokuto says. “Don’t get lost getting back. Text me when you make it!”

  


“I will. Good morning, Bokuto-san.”

  


“Good night, Akaashi.”

  


They don’t try to tell him it isn’t quite night. It’s dark enough, and the sentiment stands. There’s something growing in their chest, seeping into every crack, spreading across every plane. They don’t have a name for it. They’re not sure they want to. All they know is this: Bokuto is the only person that has ever brought this on, and he’s been doing it since the dawn of time.

  


All they know is this:

  


It feels vaguely dangerous.

  


They don’t think they mind.

  


* * *

  


Keiji’s arm stretches across an empty expanse of cold sheets, fingers curling into empty air. Their mind is full of too many thoughts to be able to sleep.

  


At the forefront: Kuroo Tetsurou is a pain in the ass. Kenma isn’t much better. They just have to mouth off with whatever they’re thinking, honest about everything, acting like they know it all. And maybe it’s because they do. Maybe it’s because, loathe as Keiji is to admit it, more often than not, they’re right. And it’s disgusting. No one should be able to get away with the things they always do, to pull off the things they always do.

  


They don’t call Kenma when they go places like the botanical gardens, even if they know it’s a place he mights like to see. He’ll see the pictures, they figure, and that’s enough. They certainly wouldn’t brave the cold for him for anything even near that degree. They don’t let any of their other friends just walk into their apartment on a whim, haven’t even spoken to Konoha since they landed in DC. Nothing more than a couple of texts related to nothing at all.

  


Sometimes Bokuto lays in Keiji’s bed like he owns it, like he belongs there, and maybe he does, and he’ll lean his head on their shoulder and read along with whatever book they have in their hands, even if it’s the middle of the story and he’s got no idea what’s going on, just because he wants to get all close, because Bokuto does that. He’s always in Keiji’s space. Even if it’s not pressed up against him, shoulder to elbow to hip, he’s still _there,_ at the foot of the couch, lap serving as Keiji’s footrest, playing a game on his phone while they sort of pay attention to whatever’s on TV. It’s more odd if he’s _not_ there, more odd if Keiji goes a day without seeing him, and they don’t remember the last time they went a day without at least talking on the phone.

  


Keiji’s chest twists with something painfully familiar and fully unknown.

  


Friends . . . Friends don’t _do_ the things they do, do they? Friends don’t show up at each other’s apartments with groceries to make dinner four nights a week, don’t share beds because that’s more comfortable than the couch or futon, don’t—

  


They don’t . . .

  


Keiji jolts at their ringtone and blindly reaches for their phone, answering without looking at the caller ID. They already know who it is anyway.

  


“Did I wake you up?” Bokuto asks when they answer.

  


They shake their head, even though he can’t see. “No. No, I was awake. How was your day?”

  


Bokuto chatters on, filling in all the gaps Keiji doesn’t, still distracted. They’ve started wandering down one of the paths at the fork, and they don’t know how to turn back or even stop now that they’re here. It’s a thread on an old frayed sweater they can’t stop pulling at even as the whole thing unravels. It’s _there,_ so they have to pick at it until there’s nothing left to be picked at, which could be a very dangerous game, but they think they may have been playing it for a while already.

  


“You’re quiet tonight,” Bokuto comments as he’s preparing his dinner. “Are you sure you’re alright? You really weren’t sleeping?”

  


“I’m okay,” Keiji promises. “I really wasn’t sleeping. It’s just late. I miss you.” The words come out tight, and they don’t mean for them to, they don’t even mean to _say_ it, but there’s no turning back. There’s never turning back. All they can do is continue moving forward, continue walking, continue pulling at the thread until they reach the end of it.

  


There’s the sharp tapping of Bokuto’s phone knocking against the table as he picks it up, and the residual static clears away as he takes it off speaker phone. His voice sounds so much closer now. If Keiji closes their eyes, he’s almost in the room with them.

  


“I miss you, too. A lot. You have to come home soon,” he says softly.

  


“I know. I’m going to. I have to. You’re not coming here so . . . I have to.”

  


This is a fine line they’re walking down. It’s a balancing act, perfected over the years they’ve known him, and they’re starting to sway. If they fall, will they be caught before they hit the ground?

  


“Please. _Please,_ Akaashi.”

  


Bokuto’s voice sounds just as tight, just as strangled, now. Keiji can picture the expression he must be wearing, and wants to smooth out the wrinkles in his brow, lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, cheek, anywhere at all. Just wants to be touching him, wants to be _with_ him. They’re seven thousand miles too far apart and Keiji aches with it.

  


It’s a terrifying, heart wrenching thing to make a person home. But here they are. Here Keiji is. Pained with it.

  


No turning back. No escaping orbit.

  


* * *

  


The thing about Bokuto is, he wears his heart as a billboard sign pinned dead center on his chest, impossible to miss, spelling out every last feeling in bold letters. He’s never been scared of exposing himself, and therefore has never been a guessing game.

  


The thing about Keiji is, they don’t always look to see what the letters are saying.

  


So maybe they didn’t pick up on it, when they came back from their last trip to Shenzhen and Bokuto was acting just a little different. Maybe they ignored all the signs and let themself slip back into old habits, and didn’t think anything of it when the nature of those habits got dialed up to a hundred, bass boosted, blaring for all the world to hear. Touchy, like always, but more frequent, more all over the place, more tender. Comfortable as ever, but with flustered smiles and red-tipped ears. Hearts that beat but half a note out of time.

  


Maybe—

  


Maybe Keiji was scared. Maybe Keiji is still scared, looking out at Bokuto’s heart, pinned to his chest, and in towards their own, buried deep inside.

  


They match.

  


* * *

  


“Did you get what you wanted?” Kenma asks.

  


Keiji picks up a book from a shelf at one of the airport gift shops, scanning the back cover as if they’re actually interested. “What do you mean?”

  


“You know . . . Your inspiration or whatever. Did your little trip get you out of your rut or are you going to keep moping when you touch down? Because I’ll ship you right back over if that’s the case.”

  


Keiji snorts and puts the book back down. “I’m really so touched. And I did, thank you. I’m coming back with more than I expected, actually.”

  


“Really?”

  


It’s hard to take him seriously. Keiji knows he’s genuinely interested, because as much as he likes to disguise it, Kenma cares deeply about the people in his life, but it’s just that — he likes to disguise it, so he comes off sarcastic and like he couldn’t be more disinterested in the topic at hand.

  


“Really. I’ve got new themes I’d like to explore and build some pieces out of. You’ll like it, I know you’re secretly a hopeless romantic.”

  


_“You take that back.”_

  


“I’ve seen your collection of rom-coms. You once called me drunk and went on that embarrassing rant about your feelings for Kuroo-san. You can’t hide from me.” Keiji picks up a package of chocolates they know Oikawa will like, and sour candy for Kenma.

  


“I’m hanging up and blocking your number,” Kenma bites.

  


“Liar.”

  


“Asshole. Tell me what it is. What’s romantic about it? Is this about Bokuto? It is, isn’t it?”

  


Keiji rolls their eyes. Kenma’s not the only one who can and will cover up what he’s really thinking. “I’ll tell you about it when I’m back. It’s easier to show you anyway.”

  


“So you called just to tell me you’ve got this whole big thing up your sleeve but not to tell me what that thing is?”

  


“You called me.”

  


“Whatever.”

  


Kenma keeps them company while they wait around for their flight. They came a little too early, and sitting around at airports is probably the least exciting thing on the planet. There’s not nearly enough to do, and the novelty of them’s worn off after having taken so many trips for work. They just want to get home.

  


They just want Bokuto.

  


Kenma wishes them a safe flight and tells them he’d better come over first thing to show him whatever it is they’re thinking about, because don’t they know keeping secrets is rude? Keiji promises to come over as soon as they’re settled in again.

  


They sleep through half the flight, and feel restless the entire rest of it, knowing that as soon as they land, Bokuto’s going to be there.

  


* * *

  


Three in the morning. Bokuto’s call.

  


“I don’t really have anything to tell you today. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  


“You miss me that much? You must really love me.”

  


“You’re so sharp when you’re tired. Ugh. Yeah. Whatever, yeah. Can you just talk? I don’t care what it’s about. Just . . . your voice.”

  


“Sure. Of course. . . . For the record, me, too. You want to hear about the Eastern Market?”

  


* * *

  


Keiji spent hours in their final nights in DC poring over every photograph taken over the course of their trip. There was a common thread between them all, something similar in the composition, the view of each. Something subconsciously purposeful.

  


It hit them at two o’clock in the morning, staring at the ceiling. Each one, taken with one person in mind. With the idea of making him happy with it. The things he’d want to see, how he’d see them if he’d been there alongside them, what he’d notice most significantly.

  


It’s a little pathetic. Definitely cheesy. To do something on the theme of love. Something on the theme of home. But it’s a new take. Something Keiji hasn’t actively pursued before. Something they’ve never been motivated to.

  


A text flashes on their phone screen.

  


_i’m here!! tell me when you’re at baggage claim!!!_

  


They’re motivated now.

  


* * *

  


There’s something so much brighter about the stars after so many nights in a row with nothing but darkness. They shine differently, stand out more. There’s a greater need to reach out to try and catch them. Something about how the heart grows fonder, or whatever.

  


When Keiji spots Bokuto, standing with a big, overdone sign with their name on it, a wide grin spread all across his face, something sparks deep inside them. There’s something brighter about him. Something Keiji longs so much more than ever to reach out for and take hold of.

  


He pulls them into a tight hug, warm and familiar and safe, home home _home,_ Keiji is _home,_ and they’re so overjoyed they could cry about it. Maybe they do cry. They’re not really sure, in the moment, but Bokuto’s definitely got tears in his eyes when he pulls back. It’s definitely overdramatic, but Keiji thinks, that’s love, isn’t it? Over the top. Emotion to the max, bass boosted to blow out the speakers, enough to leave your ears ringing.

  


“I missed you,” Bokuto says, voice clear without the phone static between them, barely above a whisper.

  


Keiji gives a watery smile in return. “I missed you, too.”

  


* * *

  


Love is this:

  


A confession in the form of a collection of photographs with focus on color and angles, the brightest sides of things, the pieces that Keiji never looks for but Bokuto always does. He balances them out like that, always, in every regard, even though photography is totally their wheelhouse and not at all his. He still fills in the gaps. He will always fill in the gaps. Like fingers fitted perfectly together atop familiar sheets of a familiar bed, like mouths moving perfectly against one another, like _KeijiandBokuto,_ one and one and one and that’s it.

  


Home is this:

  


Bokuto stretched across the sofa when Keiji returns to their apartment like he owns the place, like he’s the one paying rent, his t-shirts and sweaters draped over the backs of chairs and pooled on the floor, his hand reaching out for Keiji’s to pull them on top of him and laughing as he does, every day of the week, pressing kisses to cheeks and hands and foreheads and lips, hands on waists and fingers dipping into the grooves of a spine, and _stop, we have to have dinner first, please, just once let’s have dinner first I’m starving,_ and they never end up having dinner first, as if that’s ever been a problem.

  


Love is this:

  


Bokuto and Keiji.

  


Home is this:

  


Keiji and Bokuto.

**Author's Note:**

> i meant to have this finished much, much earlier, but then i started over writing this a good seven times. so we're here. i so hope this version is right
> 
> [[twit](https://twitter.com/johzenjiTM) || [tumb](https://extrasolxr.tumblr.com/)]


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